


Maroon

by tsait



Category: Dragon Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-01
Updated: 2012-08-01
Packaged: 2017-11-11 03:58:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/474260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsait/pseuds/tsait
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What she brings, the next day is... not frilly. Or lacy, or any such thing. She has kept her end of the deal. But when she holds out the robes to Fenris, he can only stare numbly, mouth working around words which refuse to come. He knows she expects him to take it, but his arms feel like lead, weighed by his side by some force which he cannot explain.</p><p>Reminds of Tevinter in the most unlikely places.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maroon

Fenris stares flatly at Hawke. He is aware that his expression conveys his reluctance, but he still feels the need to verbally convey his reluctance.

“No.”

“Oh, come on Fenris! Don’t tell me you actually are allergic to fun?”

He snorts. “You would call dressing up in gaudy coloured, frilled creations and pretending to enjoy the company of Orlesians fun? Then yes, I suppose I am allergic to it. You are more than welcome to it.”

Hawke groans, draping herself over the back of Fenris’ armchair.

“I assume I was not your first choice for this ‘fun’ adventure.”

“You wound me! Why would you assume such a thing?”

“I do not assume. I know. I do possess some talents, yes, but they have limits. I do not partake in fancy dress, I cannot make small talk, and more importantly, I can barely stand being in the presence of Orlesians.” He pauses. Hawke does not seem to be fazed by his complaints. This woman is utterly maddening, all smiles and lazing over his furniture, uninvited of course. She looks as if she wants him to continue. “Am I incorrect? I assume you have already gone to Anders, Bethany, Carver, Isabela, Sebastian... perhaps even Merrill.”

No answer.

“Well, Hawke?”

“... I haven’t asked Merrill?”

Fenris almost laughs at that. “And who wounds who now?”

She waves a hand, attempting to shrug off the issue with one of those ridiculous smiles. “... guess it turns out they all hate Orlesians as much as you?”

“I highly doubt that. But I understand their reluctance, nonetheless.”

Hawke kicks her heels against the legs of the armchair, chewing on her lip as she inevitably attempts to figure out a way to dupe or con Fenris into going along with her. He will not let her, like he has so many times in the past. She is occasionally cunning, and it catches him out every time.

“But Fenris... aren’t you above all the others? Surely you could do anything that they’re afraid of?”

An exasperated sigh. “Is that honestly the best you can manage? They are not afraid, I would wager. Well, perhaps afraid of coming back speaking like an insufferable member of the Orlais nobility, or smelling overpoweringly of a bouquet of flowers.”

“Which would not suit your image at all!”

“Ha ha. I am not going, Hakwe.”

“And I’m not leaving until you say you’ll go.”

Fenris grunts softly, pacing to the other side of the room to pick up a bottle of wine. He turns it over in his hand. Hawke shifts, swivelling around in the armchair. She crosses her arms and relaxes, letting herself slide down. Fenris attempts to – but cannot – ignore her any longer when he closes her eyes and pretends to snore in a comically fake, loud manner. He slams the bottle down on the desk, stalking over until he is only a few feet from the chair. She cracks an eye open, peering at him.

“What are you doing?” he demands.

“Figured I might be here a while. Best to set in for the long haul, right?”

“Or a very short haul,” he snarls, “If I decide to forcibly eject you from my home.”

“Home? I think that’s talking it up a little. Dump, perhaps?” He grabs her arm, pulls her to standing. “Hovel, trashheap – “ He drags her to the door of the room as she cheerfully recites every possible word synonymous with ‘dump’. Completely unperturbed by the hard metal digging into her arm, of course. He tightens his grip until she finally – mercifully¬ – shuts up.

“This is no way to treat a lady!”

“Perhaps I shall treat you like a lady when you endeavour to behave like a lady.”

She wrestles her arm free. Fenris reluctantly draws his hand back. He looks down at a pair of defiant eyes and an expression which still has a lingering cheerfulness.

“Please, Fenris. I’m sure we’ll make some good coin from it. And you’ll have the pleasure of my company.”

“You’ve convinced me. Let me gather my things.”

“Really?”

“No.”

“Fenris...”

“Is this how you attempted to coerce the others into joining you? It is little wonder that they declined.” He turns away, pressing fingers to his forehead.

“I really have nothing to offer, apart from my coin and my gratitude.” There is something more sincere in her voice now, and the tone causes Fenris to turn back to her. She is no longer smug, goading or cheerful; only plainly expressing her need. She has shown Fenris a weakness. He is... unused to such a thing from Hawke, and without thinking he speaks: “Very well. I will go with you.”

Her face lights up. He attempts to dampen it somewhat, holding out a hand as if to halt the inevitable gushing – or perhaps gloating – that is threatening to explode from her.

“I have conditions.”

“Don’t you always?”

“Only when I have reason to.”

“Go on, then.”

“No frills. No lace. No ruffles. No pink, or purple – “

“Not comfortable with your sexuality, Fenris?”

A dismissive grunt. “No tight trousers”

“You drive a hard bargain!”

“And most importantly, absolutely no small talk. I will remain out of sight whenever possible.” He does not look forward to being stared at, leered at by the men of Orlais, as if he is some scum under their expensive shoes. No. He has had quite enough of that. Hawke is plainly overjoyed that she has conned anyone into this at all – Fenris’ demands are but a small sacrifice.

“Okay okay, I’ll do the talking. You can stand a few paces behind me, looking mildly threatening. My bodyguard, if you will.”

Fenris tenses. I am no bodyguard, no slave is on his lips. He calms himself, reminds himself that there are no cruel intentions behind Hawke’s words. She does not seek to offend him. This knowledge, however, does not stop his hands curling into loose fists.

“That is one of my talents.” He is surprised at how even his voice sounds. It pleases him, irrationally so.

Hakwe just chuckles. “Alright. We’ll leave tomorrow, early.”

“Why? The Orlesians never rise before midday at the earliest, unless – “

“Wyvern hunt.”

“Yes. A hunt. Wonderful.”

Hawke opens the door, glancing back at him.

“Thank you, Fenris.”

“If any of the others ask why I was mad enough to follow you on this ridiculous journey – “

“ – I enlisted the help of blood mages to take you against your will?”

“That sounds reasonable.”

“Or perhaps I could tell them that I secretly learnt your dance routine, and planned to re-enact it in front of the entirety of Kirkwall did you did not – “

“Get out of my house, Hawke. Have you not tortured me enough for one night?”

“This? This is just a warm up.”

“My head aches.”

“Oh, poor big bad warrior Fenris, he has an aching – “

“I can still revoke my offer,” he comments, no hint of humour in his voice. That makes her listen. The gulps and ducks out the door, grinning the entire time. “I’ll bring you some clothes!”

He opens his mouth to comment – “No frills, don’t worry, I’ll remember.” With that she exits the room. He can hear her whistling the entire why out. It is a wonder she does not give herself a headache of her own with all that incessant cheerfulness. Exasperated, he turned back to the abandoned wine bottle, wasting no time in uncorking it. He sighs when liquid his tongue.

Orlais.

This woman will, most certainly, be the death of him.

 

What she brings, the next day is... not frilly. Or lacy, or any such thing. She has kept her end of the deal. But when she holds out the robes to Fenris, he can only stare numbly, mouth working around words which refuse to come. He knows she expects him to take it, but his arms feel like lead, weighed by his side by some force which he cannot explain. Hawke sees fit to comment on his state.

“Hey, no ruffles, right? What’s wrong? It’s really all I could find, pulled it out of a chest one day and never really thought to sell it. You can keep it if you want, even.”

He would sooner spit on it. When she offers the clothing again, he flinches away, taking a step back.

“... Fenris?” She sounds genuinely confused, now. It is a small comfort that this is only a misunderstanding, rather than a mockery. But that knowledge does not allow him to relax his jaw, or to stop eyeing the clothes as if they are some animal faeces festering in the streets of Lowtown.

“Where... the chest you took these from. Do you recall when? Where?”

Hawke’s frown deepens. “No? If you’re worried about stealing, Fenris, i think it’s a little late for you to be developing a sense of morali – “

“Tevinter robes,” he snarls, the words bitter and awkward on his tongue.

“What?”

He has no desire to repeat himself, but he does repeat himself nonetheless. “Tevinter robes. These clothes,” he nods jerkily at the bunched fabric in Hawke’s arms. “They are maroon. The colour of Tevinter. The way they are made, the material, the shape...” He turns his head to the side and spits on the floor. Hawke has, for once at the very least, managed to remain silent. Fenris’ eyes are narrowed, his body tensed. “I will not wear them, nor will I argue that point.”

“’No robes previously worn by the oppressive magisters of Tevinter’ was not one of your clauses...” Hawke tries weakly, looking suddenly uncomfortable to be holding the clothes in her arms.

“I figured it did not need to be stated.” He does not snap at her for that pathetic joke. Hawke is clearly as surprised to learn what she had picked up as Fenris had been to see that disgusting colour grace his presence in a circumstance such as this.

“Yes I... suppose it did not,” she manages lamely, looking from the robes to Fenris’ face. “You do not have to wear them, Fenris. We could... burn them, even, if it would please you.”

“So long as I never see them again, I care very little what you choose to do with them.”

“I understand.” She shifts a little, fiddling with the fabric between two fingers. She wants to say more – a fact made apparent by the way she continues to glance up at Fenris. He waits.

“I understand, but – “

He nips this in the bud. “There are no buts. I will not wear it, and you will be very sorry if you attempt to force me.” There is no sense in letting her continue to speak, when his mind, his opinion will not change. He would sooner go to Orlais naked.

“I won’t force you, Fenris. I just think – “

“Spare me your dimwitted thoughts.”

“Ouch.” She simply shrugs, picking at a loose thread on the robes. “Just hear me out.”

“Just hearing you out seems to rarely do me any good.”

“I won’t hurt you to listen for a few moments!”

“So says you.”

Exasperated, she looks Fenris up and down once. “I understand how much you hate Tevinter, and of course anything associated with it is going to –“ Fenris knows where this is going. He knows where this is going and he does not want to hear it, from Hawke or any other. He does not wish to forget, or to let go. He wanted to let his hatred fester and bubble under his skin, until it grows strong enough, large enough to warm that cold, gaping hole inside him. A hole put there by the very men and women that feed his hatred.

For some reason, one which he cannot explain or rationalise, he lets Hawke continue.

The fire which she began with has dimmed somewhat, but she pushes on nonetheless. “I understand. I really do.” He doubts this, but permits her to continue. “But... don’t you ever think that you should stop drawing such parallels between this life, and your life as – “ she pauses, hesitant. A slave, he thinks, venomously. A slave. Say it. “Your previous life,” she finishes firmly. She reaches down to pick up the robes, holds them out to Fenris. When he makes no move to reach for them she shakes them violently; Fenris reels back with a snarl on his lips and his lyrium glowing when the fabric brushes against his arm. She shakes it again, and he retreats a few steps, like a beaten dog.

“Look at how it affects you, Fenris!” she says, a frown creasing her forehead. “It’s just cloth. Just cloth.” She holds it out, arm fully extended. Fenris simply stares back, unblinking and tense. “Just cloth. It is not a Tevinter magister, only his clothing. It cannot hurt you.”  
She does not understand, cannot. It is not just cloth. It is a vessel of memories. She cannot understand that he is unable to break the two apart, cannot separate the memories from what others would see as harmless, innocuous objects.

Cannot. Cannot. Does not want to...

To let go of those memories would be more difficult than living without them. What is he without the memories of those years? Nothing.

“Only cloth.” Another shake from Hawke, another snarl from Fenris. He will not respond to her goading.

“Just take it!” she snaps. He expression is not something Fenris has seen often on Hawke’s face. She has lost her temper, and there is something so unsettling about that fact paired with the maroon robes in her hand. He feels his heart beat quicken, his palms clammy with sweat. If he wanted to take the robes now, he could not, his joints locked and stiff. A long moment passes. Hawke stares at him and he stares back; her eyes are hot and challenging, his as blank as he can possibly manage.

“No,” he says finally, throat dry, as if his behaviour did not already indicate his refusal.

She does, for a moment, look ready to rebuke him. Fenris watches – with a sense relief that he does not care to acknowledge – as her temper settles.

Hawke sighs. “Fine.” She throws the robes on the floor once more. Fenris stares at the pile, refuses to lift his gaze. “Fine. Do what you want. Live with hatred and fear, let them master you.”

“You invited me on this damnable expedition!” he cries, “Perhaps you could thank me by respecting my wishes.”

“I’m trying to help you, Fenris. It’s what friends do. Did you no know that?”

“Do not patronise me.”

“Don’t act like a child!”

“Why is it that you – you and the others – are so desperate to help me? Has it ever occurred to any of you that I am happy as I am? That I do not require help? It seems to me that you are the unhappy one, so concerned are you with fixing me.” He finishes breathless and desperately wishing to believe the words he speaks. This should not be so tiring.

Hawke shakes her head, turning her back on him. She pauses when she reaches the door, turns it around. Her is expression is calm, and Fenris takes it for an expression of pity. It makes his hatred a little keener. She smiles, ruefully. “Happy people do not shudder and flinch as if touched with a hot poker when they are touched by maroon cloth. Happy people do not live in run in run-down, decrepit mansions, leaving them so as a matter of principle. Nor do they live in the past, no matter how horrifying it may have been. Happy people – “

“Are not me. You have made your point. Have an enjoyable time at your garden party.”

“Fenris – “

“Leave.”

She does so. Once he is certain she has left he buries his fingers in his hair. When he cracks an eye open, that colour – that ugly colour – stares back at him, glares in his vision. He leaves the pile crumpled in the centre of the room and leaves it.


End file.
